Runaway, Baby
by JustAGirl'xo
Summary: When social services try to take Carla and Rob away, Carla is having none of it, and disappears off into the night. As a teenage runaway, she struggles to survive with little food and nothing but a roof over her head. When the situation turns darker, Carla finds herself falling into the caring arms of a handsome stranger; a young, carefree Peter Barlow, to be precise.
1. Error

**I know I've got a lot of fics on the go at the moment, but I had a craving for an AU fic in the style of my 'Little Lady' fic, involving Carla as a youngster. It will eventually be Carter :). It's rated T for now but may change to M as I publish later chapters covering darker issues. It's pretty self-explanatory. Peter will appear in Chapter 2 or 3 and becomes a central character in Chapter 5 or 6, so keep reading! Reviews are much appreciated, they help me to improve as well as tell me what you're all liking and not liking. By the way, this isn't going to be the same as 'Little Lady', for those of you who read that, and the whole 'love story' aspect will be much more prevalent in this fic.**

**Thank you for reading, I hope you like it!**

**Chloe xxx**

* * *

Runaway, Baby

In one split second, a life can change forever. One decision, one bad move, one mistake can shatter the comfortable existences of so many people. One error. The difficulty with Sharon Donovan was that she kept making these life-changing mistakes, every week, every day, something new would happen that would cause upset not only to her, but also to her children, fifteen-year old Carla and thirteen-year-old Rob, whose birthday the previous weekend had been ruined as his mother had stumbled home during his party blindingly drunk and proceeded to get off with one of his so-called 'friends' from the year above. Their father had never been on the scene; he hadn't ever been Sharon's 'boyfriend', as such, just a man who she had fallen into bed with a couple of times, who had been unlucky. Sharon didn't feel unlucky, though, as her children were both popular, bright and gorgeous, though their intelligence was more in life rather than in the classroom. She received numerous phone calls on a weekly basis informing her that one or the other of her children was in serious trouble for fighting or answering back, that was, of course, if they'd bothered to show their faces at all. She was, however, immensely proud of them. Rob, the youngest, demonstrated football skills that would put Bobby Charlton to shame, and was the pin-up boy of the second year, being a massive hit with the ladies due to his charming demeanour and quick wit. Carla, meanwhile, was beyond stunning, though she never acted stuck-up, despite the knowledge that she had every young man within a five-mile radius at her beck and call. She was also very clever and, with a bit more concentration, could do much better at school than she seemed to believe. There was no denying that Sharon loved her children. Her main downfall was her ongoing battle with drug and alcohol abuse. Since Rob's birth, her habit had spiralled out of control, and she had often left her young children to fend for themselves as she'd been out on an all-night bender and had wound up drunk in a gutter. She'd been sacked from her job months before after rocking up intoxicated and two hours late, and this had naturally put a strain on her family. They barely had enough money to cover the rent and food to keep them alive, and even that was only due to them selling every valuable possession that they had. Rob had kept his scruffy, patched-up old football and a box of chalk which he used to draw out football pitches in the park behind their house, whilst Carla kept only her basic makeup and a cheap pay-as-you-go phone, which she funded from her wages from her job as a waitress in the bar down the road. In recent weeks, however, their struggles hadn't remained a little secret that they kept from the outside world. Soon enough, the school had begun to notice that both Donovan children were growing skinnier and skinnier each day, that their skin tones were pale and their clothes ripped and scruffy. They were malnourished, and everybody knew it.

It was an average weekday afternoon – both children had returned home from school and were engulfed in their own activities, Carla sat cross-legged in the middle of the empty room with her textbooks open and a pencil, stolen from school, in her hand, whilst Rob was practicing his keepy-up skills in the corner of the room. Their mother was out, again, and neither knew where. They both froze as there was a loud tap at the door. Nobody ever called at that time of the day, and their mother had a key to the flat. Glancing back at her brother in confusion, Carla scurried over to the front door and slowly opened it, first peeking around the corner and then, once spotting the man and woman in crisp suits, opening it the rest of the day.

"Carla?" the woman asked, her voice soft and somewhat kind. Carla nodded, and the woman held out a hand. "My name is Mirabelle, and I'm a social worker." Carla's eyes widened in fear, and she took a tentative step back away from the door.

"Go away…" she answered, her voice quivering with panic.

"Carla, my colleague and I would like to have a chat to you and your brother, if that's okay. Is your mother home?" the woman asked.

"Nah, she's gone out to the shops, said something about getting us in some tea," came Rob's voice as he appeared behind his sister in rescue, his football tucked under his arm. The social worker raised her eyebrows as she scanned her eyes over Rob's clothing, a shabby pair of trousers and an old t-shirt stained with god-knows what. His hair was dishevelled as they had ran out of hot water that morning so he'd been unable to have a shower.

"That's a shame, but we'd still like to talk to the two of you." Reluctantly, the siblings stepped back, allowing the intruders into their pigsty of a home, knowing exactly what was to come.

* * *

The two social workers, the woman named Mirabelle and the man who had introduced himself as Jason, were sat beside each other on the sofa, each clutching a glass of water – they had originally asked for tea, though Carla had discovered no tea bags, coffee beans or milk anywhere in the flat. They had been questioning the children for about a quarter of an hour. Rob was sprawled out across the floor, his responses short and nonchalant. Carla, meanwhile, was perched on the kitchen sideboard, her own answers defensive and protective of her mother. The questions had all been very similar: "How often does your mother leave you alone?"; "Does your mother frequently stay out overnight?"; "Who does the shopping in your family?"; "How would you contact your mother if one of you had an accident while she was out?". The social workers looked at one another, solemnly, before they rose to her feet and Mirabelle gave the children a sympathetic smile.

"I'm going to have to ask the two of you to come with us as we're very worried about your safety. You can trust us. We're going to take you both in our car to a special centre where we will try and find you some alternative accommodation for the time being, in nice homes with caring families, clean clothes and nice warm beds-"

"No," Carla snapped, hopping to her feet and backing towards the door, her eyes wide with fear. She'd heard all of the horror stories about foster families and their strict rules and regulations, and the lack of contact she knew she'd have with her mum and brother. She wasn't prepared for that. They were getting by just fine on their own, weren't they?

"Carla, this is for your own good. You'll be much safer-"

"I'm not going and you can't make me," Carla interjected, before spinning sharply and bolting to the front door, hauling it open and darting down the stairs of the block of flats as fast as her legs would take her. She heard the social workers calling after her but not once did she stop or turn around. She didn't know where she was running to; somewhere she could hide that was far away enough that she wouldn't be found. She ran, her feet pummelling against the floor, out of the block of flats, across the street and around the back of the little two-bedroom houses through to the next street, where she disappeared down a gap between two houses, a dark, dingy little alleyway where she could hide in the shadows until she knew they'd given up their search for her. She pressed her back up against the wall, tears springing to her eyes as she worried about Rob and her mother's reaction to the disappearance of her children. She pictured her face as she received the phone call explaining that Rob was with a new family and Carla was nowhere to be found. She would be heartbroken. As she heard quick footsteps approaching, Carla held her breath; eventually, the shadows passed and she could breathe again.

"Hiding, are we?" A harsh voice pierced the silence and Carla had to bite her tongue to prevent herself from screaming as she jumped out of her skin, not having heard the figure approach her from the depths of the alleyway. Turning, she found herself staring straight into the eyes of a man not much older than herself, about nineteen, his hair and clothes rugged but his eyes kind and understanding. She nodded.

"I'm Trey. Who are you hiding from?"

"Social," Carla admitted, though she cursed herself straight afterwards.

"Yeah, I know how you feel, love. Look, why don't you come with me, 'ey? You can't stay out here all night, just trust me on that one. I live in the basement of one of these old houses that no one lives in anymore with a few other people. They're all like you. They're all runaways, too. It puts a roof over your head, at least," the man offered. Carla hesitated for a moment before realising that he was right, and followed him through the alleyway to a boarded-up house at the end with broken windows and a little box front garden brimming with a sea of weeds. The stranger helped her through the window, explaining that they couldn't live in the house itself as it was frequently checked in by the police, and led her down to a locked door at the bottom of a small, discreet staircase at the bottom of the practically empty kitchen.


	2. Unrecognisable

**Thank you so much for your reviews and follows, it means a lot! I'm very eager to get my teeth into this fic, it's not at all gruelling to write, so updates will definitely be regular for a while - if you get confused, you've probably missed a chapter!**

**Thank you for reading!**

**Chloe xxx**

* * *

There were three others besides Trey living in the basement. Tasha was only a few years older than Carla, and had been living as a squatter since being kicked out of the family home at the tender age of sixteen. After meeting Trey, the pair had embarked on a sort-of relationship, or rather, a 'friends with benefits' situation, but Tasha had yet to inform him that she was two months pregnant with his child. She had quickly confided in Carla within hours of meeting her, thrilled to have another girl around to keep her company. Then there was Wayne, who was evidently stoned 75% of the time. A drug addict bled dry by his habit, he'd sold his house purely for drug money and had opted for a life on the streets. Carla had taken an instant dislike to him due to her mother's own habit, though the constant stench of weed engulfing the basement provided a familiar reminder of home. The other squatter was a man named Darren, who was probably the most normal and down-to-earth of the foursome. He and Carla had instantly bonded, he, like her, having ran away from home in his mid-teens, living in the basement ever since. Waking up in a strange environment for the first time had frightened Carla, though she quickly remembered why she wasn't tucked up in her own bed, and thanked her lucky stars that she had escaped. The thought of a new family who were sickly-sweet and patronising still made her feel sick. Blearily, she rubbed her makeup-smeared eyes, noticing Darren sprawled out across his own bed as her vision came into focus. 'Bed' for the squatters was a sheet on the floor at the sides of the room and a deflated pillow, all stolen by Wayne from the home appliances store on Lake Street.

"Where's everyone else?" she asked, her eyes darting around the room for any sign of her new roommates. Hearing her voice, Darren quickly sat up, greeting her with a small smile.

"Trey's out at work, he works in the off-licence and is ridiculously underpaid, Wayne's seeing his dealer, again, and Tash, well, I never know where Tash is. She did pop out to pinch a pint of milk earlier, when she came back she said she'd seen your face on the telly in the bookies down the road. So you might want to be careful if you venture out, keep a scarf on or something," he warned her. As Carla's eyes instantly filled with fear, he hastily continued, "Don't worry, kiddo, if you cover up, no one will recognise you." Carla nodded. She slid her hand into the pocket of her jeans, sighing in relief as her fingers grazed her last pound coin, which she planned to use to top up her mobile phone later that morning, so that she could text Rob and let him know she was okay. She'd slept in her battered black jeans and one of her mum's hand-me-down grey jumpers, which were the only clothing garments that she had with her. She needed Rob to sneak back into the flat and pick up some belongings for her; she couldn't risk going herself.

* * *

Thankfully, the squatters in the basement had access to the bathroom facilities in the upstairs of the abandoned house, as it was fully shielded from the view of the public. In it was a simple showerhead, a shower curtain that closed off a corner of the room, a tiny white towel that was littered with holes, and that Carla presumed had been stolen once upon a time, and a cheap-looking toilet. There was no sink, they were forced to carefully wash their hands under the shower stream without getting their clothes wet. After having a quick shower, only being able to deal with the cold water lashing against her bare skin for a matter of minutes before turning an unattractive shade of blue, Carla rubbed her wet finger against her teeth, making a mental note to ask Rob to retrieve her toothbrush and toothpaste from the grimy bathroom at home, and threw on her dirty clothes. As she wandered back through to the basement, she glanced up in surprise as she was hit on the top of the head by a navy blue scarf, and was met by Darren's sheepish grin.

"Chuck that on, sweetcheeks," he laughed, getting up from the bed and making his way over to Carla, wrapping the scarf around her neck and making sure to cover as much of her face as possible, leaving only her eyes on display. Her damp hair, which she'd tied in a high ponytail, she stuffed into a matching blue beanie hat that Darren had also provided. By the time she left the house, she looked almost unrecognisable.

* * *

"Carla!" Carla was suddenly submerged in a tight cuddle, Rob's arms flinging around her after bounding up to her, relieved to see her safe.

"Shh, Rob! Are you completely stupid? Keep your voice down!" Carla hissed, wriggling out of her brother's grasp and raising her eyebrows, "I can't be seen." Having lost his 'cool' for a moment, overcome with happiness, Rob gave an embarrassed cough, his eyes falling to the pavement below his feet.

"Sorry," he muttered. The pair had arranged to meet in a ginnel behind a row of houses near their school, where Rob had spent his day being continuously bombarded with questions regarding the whereabouts of his elder sister from both teachers and other students alike.

"How are your new family?"

"They're alright. Bit posh. They got rid of a load of my stuff, said it stank of drugs, and they don't like that kind of thing. Where are you living now?"

"I can't say, just in case. Anyway, I don't want you to have to lie, I'd rather you just didn't know. I'm okay, though, but I need you to go back to the house for me and get a few things…" Carla replied, drawing a scrunched-up list from the pocket of her jeans and pressing it into the palm of his hand. Rob quickly scanned his eyes over the list and gave a small nod.

"Alright. Why can't you go?"

"Just in case. They can't see me," Carla sighed, giving Rob a small, reassuring smile, "Meet me back here at ten tonight, yeah? With all the stuff."

"Can't. Ten's my new, fancy curfew."

"Nine, then."

"Okay, see you then." Rob gave Carla another hug, making the most of his time with her, before skulking off into the watching eyes of the public once again. Carla waited for a moment before following him, tugging her scarf back over her mouth and her beanie hat over her ears. She fixed her eyes on the floor, watching her battered old plimsolls as she followed her path back to the basement - across the road and along the pavement in front of the bookies. Her body tensed as she heard the low hum of the television through the glass window of the betting shop, faintly able to make out the details of a 'missing schoolgirl, 5"5, dark hair, green eyes'. She was so caught up in her panic that she didn't see the approaching stranger, who was absorbed in trying to light a cigarette in the breezy October air, too absorbed, in fact, to notice the young runaway. Carla jumped in surprise as she unwittingly bumped into the stranger, and she raised her eyes, meeting his instantly. She was taken aback by his rugged good looks. He was older than she, in his twenties. His eyes were dark, as was his hair, and a light stubble covered his jaw and chin. He was dressed in a pair of jeans and a faded leather jacket, accentuating his attractiveness. He smiled, apologetically.

"Sorry love, didn't see you there," he chuckled, though his face fell as he took his first real look at Carla. He hesitated for a moment. "Do I know you from somewhere?" Panicked, Carla quickly pushed past him, stepping out onto the road and sprinting back in the direction of the basement, getting all too used to the escaping thing by that point. Frowning, Peter watched her speed away, before relenting with the cigarette and shoving it back into its box, which he swiftly returned to his jacket pocket as he pushed open the door to the bookies.

"Afternoon, Peter," the worker behind the counter called.

"Hiya, Ade," Peter nodded in response, his brow still furrowed in confusion. He flung himself down onto one of the cushioned seats opposite the counter, his regular spot in the haunt, suddenly riveted by the television, which was screening the news before the next race began.

"Carla Donovan, fifteen, is missing in Weatherfield. She was last seen wearing black jeans and a grey jumper. If you have any information regarding her whereabouts, please telephone the number shown on your screen." He was staring at the image of the missing girl, her eyes a murky shade of green, almost hazel, her complexion flawless and her lips full and plump. It was the girl that he had just bumped into. That's where he'd known her from, he'd seen her picture on the television at home that morning. She was the runaway.


	3. Dreamworld

**Thank you for all of your reviews, they mean a lot!**

* * *

Peter groaned, the shrill ringing of the home phone interrupting his peaceful sleep and shattering his pleasant dreams. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the soft muttering coming from the other side of the bedroom door. Sadly, it looked as though he was not going to be able to return to his dreamworld, as seconds later there was a harsh tap on the door, before his twin sister, Susan, whom he had been sharing a flat with for the last few months, stuck her head around the door.

"That was Jess on the phone. Again. I told her you were at work and that you'd call her back later, Peter, you have to talk to the poor girl."

"Thanks for your valuable advice, Suze, but I'm handling it," Peter grumbled, wriggling down further underneath the bedcovers and tugging them over his head, trying to block out the sound of his sister's voice.

"You called off your wedding and left her not knowing what to do. If you really don't want to be with her-"

"I don't."

"Then you need to explain that to her. You were meant to be getting hitched in a few months and suddenly you don't want to go through with it, can't you see how she feels? I mean, is there someone else?"

"Can't a bloke just not want to get married? Why does there have to be someone else involved?" came Peter's muffled response from beneath the duvet.

"Because I know what you're like," Susan replied, curtly, folding her arms across her chest.

"I've just got back from the Navy. I don't want to tie myself down to anyone. Especially not her. Now go away and let me sleep, I don't have to be at the office until ten," Peter snapped.

"You and that sodding youth club," Susan scoffed, shaking her head in amazement at her twin before backing out of the room, leaving Peter to his own solitude.

* * *

It was strange to see the usually bustling youth centre so quiet, so lacking in life. The tables, which, on a Tuesday, Friday and Sunday evening, were normally scattered with sheets of paper, sweet wrappers and games consoles, were clear, the bar free of empty glasses and bottles. That morning, Peter wasn't at the centre for the purpose of supervising the underprivileged youth that bounded in through the doors three evenings a week. He was there to fill out some paperwork alongside his boss, James, and his co-worker Sebastian. With a sigh, he tossed his battered leather jacket over one of the chairs in the centre's office and threw himself down onto the seat, still clearly irritated by his rude awakening that morning. James, fairly used to his young employee's short temper, simply raised an eyebrow.

"Trouble in paradise?" he asked, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"Women," Peter replied, nonchalantly, grabbing one of the new files spread out across the desk in an attempt to change the subject, "Robert Donovan? What's the situation?" After a child had been placed into temporary foster care, their details were passed on to the youth centre, who provided a relaxed social environment for the under-sixteens to seek refuge, and gave them somebody to talk to about their problems and worries in their new homes, as well as their old lives. New children were assigned to either Peter or Sebastian as their responsibility, and Rob was the first of Peter's new cases for the week.

"Social took him yesterday. Mum's a druggie, Dad's AWOL. He's thirteen-years-old and a complete nightmare," Sebastian reeled off, flashing Peter a cheeky smirk at his superior position of knowledge. Peter screwed up his nose.

"Swot."

"His sister's the runaway kid, Carla Donovan."

"Who?"

"Didn't you see the news this morning? She's fifteen, she did a runner when the social showed up and she hasn't been seen since. Everyone's looking for her," Sebastian informed him, a hint of concern evident in his eyes. Peter nodded, now recognising the name from the earlier news broadcast. Both he and Sebastian were devoted to their jobs. Whilst the pay was good and the hours were minimal, it gave them a sense of worth, a reason for getting up in the mornings. They had strong, unbreakable bonds with the children that they helped, and acted as a 24/7 first point of call whenever they ran into any kind of problem. Peter bit his lip, glancing down at the photograph of the teenage boy at front of his file. He knew that young Robert was going to be problematic – the fact that his only sibling had disappeared off the face of the planet was sure to be eating away at him.

* * *

Angrily, Peter sighed in disbelief as he was sent straight to Jessica's voicemail service, before hanging up and stuffing his old brick mobile phone back into his jacket pocket. He'd tried to call her twice since leaving the centre, but she appeared to be completely ignoring his calls. She seemed to need to speak to him so urgently when she was the one calling the shots and making the phone calls, yet when he offered her a branch, she didn't want to know. What he did know for certain was that his mind was made up, there was no way on Earth that he would go back to her now. She was young, pretty, good fun, she would find someone else, and he had no reason whatsoever to feel guilty. He had called off the wedding because he simply wasn't ready to settle down and get married, and it would have been crueller to her to go through with it when his heart wasn't in it. Susan didn't seem to see it like that, though, as she barely spoke to him nowadays. Granted, she had had her fair share of men who had screwed her over, in particular the father of her young son, Adam, who currently lived with their father, Ken, at the other end of the street while Susan tried to pull her life together. She'd thought that having her brother and best friend around would help, but had found that his own baggage was stressing her out even more. Grumbling under his breath, Peter drew a cigarette from his pocket, followed swiftly by a lighter. He frowned in annoyance as he desperately tried to flick the lighter's switch, each flame eradicated by the heavy wind that swirled around him. "Stupid thing…" he muttered. He was so fixed on his failing lighter that he was taken by surprise as he bumped into a young girl, who froze in front of him, instantly looked startled.

"Sorry love, didn't see you there," he quickly apologised, though his grin faded as his eyes met hers, hers murky and full of fear, yet still displaying a hint of mischief. He recognised her, though he had no idea where from, "Do I know you from somewhere?" he asked. Within a split second, the girl, terrified, slammed a hand into his stomach, pushing past him and stepping out into the road, before dashing away in the opposite direction. Carla's heart raced as her feet drummed against the pavement. The wind caught her eyes, making them sting and sending tears gliding down her cheeks. She didn't stop, not once, until she reached the abandoned house, and even then she hopped through the shattered window and flew down the stairs. Darren's head shot up in surprise as she burst into the basement, alarmed at the flurry of tears coursing down her cheeks.

"I've been seen!" she sobbed, a hand flying to her mouth. Darren jumped to his feet and threw his arms around her, pulling her in close to his chest, protectively.

"It's okay, Carla, trust me, you'll be okay…"


	4. Sweat

**Thank you for the reviews! Sorry this has taken so long, I've been very busy. Hope you like it :)**

**Chloe xxx**

* * *

The sheer thought of stepping outside the basement sent a shiver of fear down Carla's spine, making her feel sick in the very depths of her malnourished stomach. After picking up her belongings from Rob, she only left her shelter when absolutely necessary, like to help her new friends to pinch food from the supermarket a couple of streets away, and even then she covered herself with a black cloak. She couldn't risk being seen, though had been reliably informed by Trey, who was provided with a constant half-hourly news bulletin at his workplace, that the frenzy that had been trigged by her mysterious disappearance had slowly begun to die down ever since the untimely death of some ultra-famous popstar over in the States. Each day seemed to seep into the next. Her pent-up state often meant that Carla couldn't tell when it was day and when it was night, and she took to creating her own schedule based on the return of the other runaways to their secret home. She had only been asleep for about an hour that night when she was disturbed by rustling in the bed next to her. Though she assumed that it was somebody returning from a nightcap at the local pub, she had learnt better than to make assumptions throughout her short stay in the basement, and rolled over onto her side, instantly meeting the eyes of a tired-looking Tasha. Tasha shot her a small, embarrassed smile as she fasted a large hoop earring in her earlobe, holding the other between her teeth.

"Tash?" Carla hissed, pushing herself upright and resting her body against the solid brick wall behind her, pulling her sheet up over her measly vest top to keep out the cold, "What are you doing? What time is it?"

"One," Tasha responded, wriggling out of her bed, revealing her peculiar clothing choice of a tiny denim mini-skirt that neatly finished just below her crotch and a low black crop-top, her breast almost pushed up over the top, "I'm going out."

"Out where?" Carla inquired, knowing that no places of interest to a teenage runaway would be open at such an early hour on what she presumed was a weekday.

"To get some cash," Tasha mumbled, consciously tugging her miniskirt down slightly. She gave a sigh as Carla frowned in response and pushed herself to her knees, crawling to Carla's bed and sitting beside her. "It's one, yeah, so all of the pubs and that will be kicking out round-about now, right?"

"Yeah…"

"So there'll be a load of lonely, greasy old gits hanging around the streets, putting off going home to their empty houses for as long as they can. Which is where I come in. I meet them, they like me, I go back to theirs and hey presto, ten, twenty quid in my pocket."

"You're a pros-?!" Carla squealed, but she was quickly silenced as Tasha slapped a hand over her mouth, narrowing her dark eyes in annoyance.

"Are you thick?! Don't say it!" she snapped, though felt slightly guilty and let her hand fall to her lap once she was convinced that Carla would remain quiet.

"What about Trey?"

"What he doesn't know won't hurt him," she shrugged, nonchalantly, "It's not like we're actually together or owt."

"You're having his baby…" Carla reminded her, her eyes wide in horror as she felt a wave of sympathy rush over her, noting the sadness in Tasha's expression. Not wanting to shed her tough image, Tasha flashed her a forlorn smile before clambering to her feet, proceeding to straighten out her skimpy outfit.

"Which is why I need to get out there tonight. No bloke's going to want to pay for a shag with a fat bird," she half-joked, slipping on a pair of scruffy high heels and teetering towards the stairs, "See you in the morning, kiddo." Hearing the door of the kitchen click shut, Carla wriggled back down underneath her bed sheet and turned onto her side once again, though she couldn't possibly sleep now, not knowing what her friend was being subjected to, fearing for her own fate.

* * *

Eventually, however, she must have drifted back off to sleep, as she awoke the next morning to what was yet again an almost-empty room, with the exception of Darren, who was sprawled out across the floor, scribbling what Carla presumed was the list of bits and pieces that they needed to steal that week in the back of a little battered notebook. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she suddenly clocked something that hadn't been in the basement when she'd fallen asleep; a large open suitcase overloaded with suits in grey and black and various bottles of what looked like cologne. She frowned in confusion.

"Daz? Where did all that come from?" she asked, nodding at the pile in the corner of the room. She had just registered the thin sheet that matched her own that was underneath it, and an uncased pillow behind it. "Is someone else moving in?" Glancing over his shoulder, Darren quickly crawled over to Carla's bed and sat on the bottom of the sheet, leaning into her so as to keep his voice low.

"Yeah. His name's Frank. He's Wayne's dealer, his wife kicked him out last night because she caught him in bed with some teenage tart. He's minted, but tight as a nun's pussy, so instead of forking out for a hotel or even some cheap, scrubby B&B, he's squatting here. I'm telling you, if I had his kind of dosh, I'd be out of this place before I'd even had a chance to let it sink in," Darren scoffed, eyeing up Frank's half a dozen bottles of expensive fragrance, "Stingy bastard."

"How old is he?" Carla asked, mentally picturing her new roommate as a freshly-married twenty-something who just couldn't keep it in his trousers. Darren shrugged.

"Well in his thirties." He scanned his eyes over Carla's scantily-clad form, just a vest top and a pair of shorts to keep her warm, though not in a perverse way. "You might want to chuck some clothes on. Fit bird like you, you'd be right up his street. He's already tried it on with Tash, Trey went mental." The thought of a much older man pawing her up making her shudder, Carla quickly clamboured out of bed and scurried over to the rucksack that she'd collected from Rob, rummaging through several tops, skirts, shorts, pairs of jeans and underwear, practical clothes; looking pretty wasn't a major concern for her anymore. Though as she heard a loud cough coming from the doorway to the main house, the sinking feeling in her stomach told her that she was too late. She sat back and lifted her head. Her eyes instantly met a pair of dark, mysterious brown eyes that perforated her skin as they took in her slim build, stunning natural beauty and prominent assets. Carla gulped. The man in front of her looked a lot older than the other squatters, evident from the telltale wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. She refused to tear her own eyes away from his face, though she could see through her peripheral vision that he was wearing only a vest and a pair of boxers. He was stood stock still, and a sly smile appeared on his lips at the sight in front of him.

"Well, well, well, we finally meet. Frank Foster," he spoke, his voice hoarse and mature. He held out a hand, but, a deer caught in headlights, didn't take it. He sniggered. "Carla, is it? Wayne's told me all about you. You're even prettier than he described. Very… Womanly." Carla could hear Darren muttering under his breath from beside her, clearly disliking the newcomer as much as she did. "I'm looking forward to getting to know you better." With one last rove of her body, the brown eyes were torn away from her, and Frank began to hunt through his suitcase for some clothes of his own. Carla could finally breathe, the palms of her hands warm and damp with sweat. For the first time since running away from home, Carla truly felt uncomfortable and scared for her own safety.


End file.
